and supergirls don't cry
by cupid-painted-blind
Summary: "If you want Tamara dead, give the gun to me."


**title**: and supergirls don't cry  
**rating**: meh. pg, I suppose.  
**summary**: "If you want Tamara dead, give the gun to me."

**a/n**: I don't know, guys, I've been in a weird mood the last couple of days. This idea has been floating around in my head forever, and I finally decided to sit down and write it out. It's been a while since I've used present-tense, too, so going back to that sandbox was nice.

.

.

She isn't seeing red.

She's heard the phrase a hundred times before but as it turns out, nothing in her field of vision is even slightly _pink_ — it's all _black,_ all blotted out, except the woman standing in front of her.

It's tunnel vision; the only thing she can see is Tamara and Tamara's gun, shaking in her hand; the only thing she can hear is her own breathing, ragged in her chest; the only thing she can taste is iron and salt on her lips; the only thing she can feel is a cold sort of _certainty,_ beating in time with her heart, each beat slowed down to a crawl, each second stretched into an hour.

Emma is going to kill her.

But Mary Margaret is talking.

The voice filters in through the darkness, more tone than words at first, and it's the pleading, _audible _tears that get to her; Emma draws in a sharp breath and blinks, and the world shatters back into focus, but leaves her no less determined.

" — know how this feels, I know you're hurt and scared — "

_Stop saying that to me_.

She isn't hurt _or_ scared, she's _furious._

" — isn't the answer, Emma, please, don't do this — "

_Why not?_

The voice stops, and she realizes that she said that out loud.

"Because you can't take it back," David's voice juts in from her left. "You can't raise someone from the dead."

"Really?" she snaps sarcastically. "I had _no_ idea."

"Emma — "

"Stop talking," another voice hisses from her right, low and directed at her parents, not to her; footsteps come closer and _he_ appears in her peripheral vision, hand outstretched. He stops only a couple of feet away from her. "You're not a killer, Emma," he says quietly, and she laughs, harsh and cold.

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do."

"I didn't say you _can't_ kill," he counters sharply. "I said you're _not_ a _killer._ You've never taken anyone's life before, and you shouldn't start now." He shifts, and before she can rip into him for underestimating her, he goes on, each vowel carefully articulated: "If you want Tamara dead, give the gun to me."

For a long moment, no one moves; Tamara looks poised to run, but Emma's finger tightens on the trigger and she stops again (even _she_ can see how thin this knife's edge is).

"I want to do this," she breathes, and the gun shakes harder.

"I've no doubt," is all he says in reply.

"She killed Neal," she goes on, as if he asked her for a reason, voice rising with every word. "She took Henry, she tried to kill all of us, she _kidnapped my son_, she _deserves_ it."

"I never suggested otherwise."

_"You_ don't have any room to try and stop me," she snaps, and maybe she's not even arguing with him anymore, maybe she's still arguing with Mary Margaret's and David's words — they were easier to refute. "You would have killed her already."

"Of course I would," he replies easily, if thinly. "But do you really want to be like me?"

Her breathing is shallow and her cheeks are wet and she can't respond at all because the answer _should_ be no but right now she just doesn't _care_ except she _does_ because he's _pointing it out_ and refusing to let her pretend otherwise.

"You're better than me, Emma," he says in a low voice, both honest and self-loathing.

"She deserves it," she repeats, voice crumbling in a way that's physically painful.

"You're better than her, too."

"What's the _point?"_ she cries, and the gun shakes in her hand so hard that Tamara winces in anticipation of the bullet she has to but can't shoot. "What good does it do? She killed Neal, she's probably killed — " the words choke off on a pained gasp.

"I haven't done _anything_ to — " Tamara starts desperately, but Emma steps forward, three of her fingers clutching the gun so tightly that she's losing circulation.

"_You shut up!_"

And she does.

"This has nothing to do with her," Hook says in that same dark voice. "Half of what makes you who you are is that you _don't_ kill people, you always find another route to the same end. I don't care what you do to her, but don't do this to _yourself."_ She's never heard him like this, fervent and only barely shy of outright pleading. "Don't kill _Emma_ in pursuit of _Tamara's_ suffering."

What he doesn't say: _This is where that spiral catches you. This is how it starts_.

What he does: "Don't become someone your son will fear."

_Don't become me_.

The gun wavers in her hand, and she thinks of Henry stealing his teacher's credit card and getting on a bus and letting it take him all the way to Boston on nothing more than faith that Emma would be his hero and save the town — save _him_ — from Regina. And then she thinks of Hook, all alone and beaten up on the side of the road, _and here I thought you wouldn't notice me_.

Her vision goes blurry and the tension in her fingers drains away; she's barely aware of Hook stepping forward and snatching the gun from her hand, passing it off to Mary Margaret; she just watches as Tamara bolts.

The anger is melting, but all that's left to replace it is despair.

This place has finally gotten to her.

"Look at me." She didn't hear him move, but his hand is on her shoulder, arm fully stretched out to put as much distance between them as possible; she's grateful at the same time she's wounded. "Emma," he says neutrally, "look at me."

She does, and he searches her face for a moment although she isn't sure what's there to find.

What he lands on is, "It isn't weakness."

She glances away, looks for Mary Margaret or David. They're easier to talk to. They don't hear what she won't say.

Emma finds them in the corners of her eyes, on either side, faces worried and pale and uncertain, but then Hook shakes her shoulder and brings her back around to him because Hook won't let her hide from the truth even when she needs to.

"How long has it been since you've slept?" he asks softly, and she blinks, staring at his shoulder so she doesn't have to see what's in his eyes _(concern)_ and compare it to what she wants _(distance)._

"It doesn't matter," she replies hoarsely, running a hand through her hair.

"Why not?" he counters, with little confusion.

"Finding Henry is what matters," she chokes. "I can't just — "

He cuts her off with a sharp, blunt, honest, unwanted, "You can't do _anything_ like this. Everyone has a breaking point, Emma."

She wishes he would stop calling her by name. He _never_ calls her Emma, just a bunch of pet names or "Swan" but all he's used this whole time is her name and it's _wrong_ because if she's _Emma,_ he's not _Hook._

She needs him to be Hook. She doesn't know how to handle Killian, and she can't deal with this right now.

"I don't have time for this," she snaps, and he lets out a short breath of a mirthless laugh.

"Funny thing about duress," he says quietly. "It doesn't really care what you have and haven't got time for."

For a long time, she doesn't say anything and they stand there in the oppressive silence, all waiting for her to act when all she really wants is to fall through the ground and back in time; his hand doesn't leave her shoulder.

She thinks about sinking forward the way she's already starting to, leaning until her head is on his shoulder, letting him hold her up, and maybe it would be using him but he'd let her, he'd always let her use him if it meant she would touch him, he'd never push her away. But her parents are watching and probably not understanding (she doesn't want to live in a world where they do, it's easier if they don't) and she and Killi—_Hook _have hardly ever interacted in front of anyone else and she doesn't want to start now but she doesn't want to stand alone either.

She doesn't have time for this. Henry _needs_ her and mothers are supposed to make sacrifices like this for their children, to put their wants and well-being aside. She's his _mother,_ she's _supposed_ to have this superpower, she's _supposed_ to be able to do this.

_Everyone has a breaking point, Emma_.

She wants to shove him away, swat his hand off her shoulder and brush her hair away from her face and _be okay_ and tell them all she's fine and stalk off to anywhere else and leave them and leave _him_ all behind to find Henry on her own because they're not doing anything but getting in her way.

She wants to hate him for stopping her; she wants to thank him for stopping her. She wants to be saved; she wants to save herself. She wants to sleep; she wants to scream.

It's all been floating around in her head so long that she's sunk forward and fallen against him the way she swore (still swears) she never wanted to, forehead resting on his collarbone, the only point of contact until his hand runs through her hair and settles on the back of her head. It's both intimate and sterile, too close and too far away.

She's hardly even touching him, but he's under her skin.

"We should get back to the ship," Mary Margaret says, an attempt to shatter the moment (or maybe it's honest concern), and Emma stays still for another moment, one breath — _in_ and _out_ — and then she straightens up and his hand falls away from her and she doesn't look at him and he doesn't look at her and she turns to her mother and nods.

"Yeah," she replies hoarsely, voice scraping its way out her throat. "Let's get back."


End file.
